


You Learn Something New Every Day

by road_rhythm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Kink Discovery, M/M, Pain Kink, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 20:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/road_rhythm/pseuds/road_rhythm
Summary: "Sammy, are you admitting you put out on the first date?""One, I don't know what the hell this is, but it's definitely not a date. Two, whatever it is, it's definitely not the first."





	You Learn Something New Every Day

**Author's Note:**

> I envision this as set in S2, but it is absolutely PWP, so.
> 
> NB: The dubcon tag is not for the sex, but for the painkink.

Sam dreams of bones being inserted into his skin, of each being pushed, sliding until they lie alongside each of his, until he has two skeletons. They don't fit, and movement is awkward, jerky, and produces little shocks every time he moves. Not all of them are painful.

He dreams this regularly, so often that the motif gets absorbed into all sorts of dreams with quite different characters: the same cloth repurposed over and over again, the way childhood homes and other such locations often are in the unconscious. As a consequence, he rarely thinks about it in his waking hours.

It must be the tequila that has him thinking about it now.

Dean's breath is heavy on his neck. "You ready?"

Sam grunts, holding himself up on his elbows. "Yes, _fuck,_ c'mon. I've been ready."

Dean fumbles, tries to stab his cock into Sam's hole, slips and skids right out of the slick.

"You fucking me or what?" Sam snaps over his shoulder.

Dean snarls, digs his thumbs into Sam's cheeks, and spreads him so hard Sam's taint stings. Sam barely has time to panic about that before Dean drives forward.

It hurts. Lots. Sam is stretched, and lubed, but neither of them has done this before and apparently it was nowhere near enough. His eyes water and throat goes tight with nausea at the hot-cold stab into the base of his spine. Every line of his body goes rigid.

"Shit." Dean is panicking. Sam does not need to be able to see his face to know what it looks like: wide-eyed and bloodless. Dean is vibrating, as if his instincts tell him to pull out but his reason doesn't dare move a millimeter. "Sammy, shit, are you okay?"

This hurts a surprising amount. Like, Sam has been stabbed and stuff before; he is acquainted with pain, and this hurts in a way he did not think something could that didn't involve significant injury. It's not just how much it hurts that takes his breath away, but _where,_ that the pain is so invasive and deep inside.

He doesn't hate it.

Sam swallows. His erection has wilted. "Fine. Chill out, I'm fine, just— Gimme a second."

Sam can't really get a hand on himself from this position. He'd have to go down on one shoulder, and the jolt would hurt to a degree he flinches away from on instinct. The thought of that pain does light up something dark inside of him, though, something he didn't know he had.

So he shuts his eyes, breathes through his nose, and _feels_ it. He feels the tightness around his rim, muscle and skin stretched too far and begging to tear. He feels the deep, cramping pain behind the small of his back. He feels his insides flex, ever so slightly, around Dean's girth as his lungs expand and contract, and after a long moment, Sam cants his hips back and feels the thick root of the cock he's impaled on screw another quarter inch inside. Dean curses and catches himself on one hand on the mattress.

Sam breathes out and—_oh._ That tingling cascade through his body is endorphins. Sam is not someone who gets an easy runner's high; he knows this feeling only from the farthest reaches of his very longest, hardest runs—and, now, this. He's had stab wounds and compound fractures before and never got an endorphin high off of those, when it would've been convenient; he never got one from the hot wax or needle play Jess wanted to try; he never got it from cutting, which made that both short-lived and disappointing as an outlet in his teen years. No, apparently Sam's on-switch is his brother's dick shoved violently up his ass. Figures.

He feels himself relaxing around Dean's cock. Dean must feel it, too, because the death grip he's got on Sam's hip with his left eases up, and the muscles of his chest across Sam's back go just a shade less tense. "How you wanna proceed here, Sammy?"

Sam rolls his shoulders and grunts—an unsexy sound, probably, but it reassures Dean and that's all that matters. "Pull out. More lube. Then you can move. All right?"

"Yeah, right, okay." Dean sounds uncertain; he sort of settles back, like he's _going_ to do what Sam says, but then just sort of holds there, both hands stilled on the skin above Sam's hips, thumbs rubbing absent, barely-there circles in the sweat.

"Any time, Dean," Sam says through gritted teeth.

"Right."

Slowly, Dean withdraws. Sam knows that's him trying to be careful, trying to make it hurt less, but all that does is draw the pain out and Sam—Sam savors it. He'd feel a little guilty, if he weren't so busy getting lost in the dragging burn through his insides.

Finally there's the swell of the head popping free of his overstretched rim, and then the click of the lube bottle followed by the _slap-slap_ of Dean's hand over himself. That sound punches want low into Sam's belly like it never has before, and he clenches over nothing just to feel the ache.

"C'mon, c'mon," he chants, arching his back, bracing his knees wider.

"Just a second, lemme—" Dean's fingers slip-slide over Sam's hole.

Sam twitches his ass away with a scowl. "No, Dean, just do it, I'm good."

"You obviously aren't." Dean flicks a finger hard against his perineum. "Jeez, Sammy, this how you treat your hookups? I _know_ I taught you to always warm her up engine first."

"What, and you handle your hookups by doing the opposite of everything they tell you to do? Shit, no wonder you got a new girl in every town; can't sell a lemon twice to the same customer—"

"Oh, you _little—"_

Dean's clean fingers tangle in Sam's hair while his lubed ones bite down on Sam's upper thigh; he yanks Sam's head back while he ruts his cock up Sam's crack. His earlier panic had started to soften it, but it's iron-hard again now. Sam can feel as much against the raw skin of his entrance.

They're so close, _so close_ to being back on track. Sam twists in a way he knows for a fact makes the muscles down his back ripple. "Bet you hear that phrase a lot, yeah."

It has to be said: there is no way in hell that this is a complaint Dean hears from anybody.

"You're a little bitch," Dean says admiringly. Fat, taut cockhead nudges against Sam's hole.

"Don't know about that, Dean." If Sam's a little out of breath, well, flattery's still good for getting him places even when it's sincere. "I'm not the one back there pussy-footing around—"

It's not one plunge this time. It's a series of short, sharp, assertive thrusts, and it's not until the fourth that Sam realizes that Dean didn't actually get all the way inside the first go. Not even close. The pain of something unyielding making room for itself in him punches deeper, and deeper, and when the neurochemical party gets back underway it's a whole other category of rave.

Endorphins are magical. There's a reason they're practically an entheogen in several cultures. Sam can feel their power unfurling down his spine and reawakening his cock, and there's a strange sense of liftoff that makes the pain at once distant and so, so immediate. So, so pervasive.

Sam rocks himself forward and then back just to feel it burst through the tapestry of his awareness.

"Nah, Sammy, I wronged you." Sam can feel Dean's grin against his shoulder as he grinds against him where they're joined. "Goin' by the noise that just came outta you, think you might be a kitty-cat."

"Fuck you," says Sam, without any heat.

"Or a goat, maybe." Dean punctuates it with a thrust. "Dying elephant."

"Getting a bestiality vibe I did not sign up for, Dean." Sam reaches over his shoulder to fist Dean's hair at the same time as he fucks himself backward. Dean bites down on his shoulder and finally, _finally_ goes to town.

The extra lube makes the slide easier, but it still hurts. If anything, it hurts more, because that lubrication reassures Dean, the caution draining out of him with every gasp Sam gives up. Except for the precome the whole room smells so much like a regular wrestling match, stuffed to bursting with sweat and exertion and _brother._ It's enough to bring Dean back from wherever he goes in his head with his hookups, the place where he has to be solicitous and gentlemanly and put on a good performance. It keeps Sam far enough from wherever he goes in his head with his own lovers that when he lets himself make noises, it only feels unnatural the first few times. It's not too many minutes of letting Dean haul him backward by his hips over and over again before Sam doesn't even know what he sounds like.

The longer they go, the more it hurts, and maybe it's the way Dean's cock skates over Sam's prostate that makes the agony start to sing.

With a groan, Sam shifts so he's supporting himself on one elbow. His plan was to free up a hand to jerk himself off, but Dean's thrusting forward as he does it and Sam teeters. Dean cusses at the sudden change in angle, and Sam shouts hoarsely.

Dean stops again, but it's nothing like the first time he froze. No panic there. After a second, he leans down, and Sam can practically smell his curiosity. "Sammy?"

"Keep going," Sam says, a little strangled.

Dean pulls back and replicates his last thrust. Sam makes a bitten-off sound in the back of his throat and spreads his knees wider.

"Oh." Another thrust, another direct hit to something beautiful inside of Sam followed by the painful grounding of his cockhead somewhere deeper. Dean has not sounded smugger than this since 1997. "Did we find your magic button, Princess?"

Sam doesn't even know how to answer that. It doesn't seem like a very good idea to tell Dean that this is not the only magic button he's found tonight.

"Dean." He lets himself beg. It isn't that he's been stripped of pride; it _isn't_. It's just that he knows Dean will never deny him when the chips are down. It's _strategic,_ is what it is, and sweat's flung from his hair when he shakes his head once, hard, never stops rocking himself back and forth the bare inch Dean's fingers on his waist allow him, and says, "Come on, Dean, show me what you've got, don't you wanna, I can take it, come on, fuck me, already, just fuck me, _fuck me—"_

Dean makes a noise like Sam punched him.

Fingers clench into Sam's thighs above his knees and wrench his legs wider, dumping him face-first into the mattress at the same moment Dean drives up and in.

Dean probably thinks the keening Sam lets out is a sound of pleasure. He must think that. No way he'd double down on this, otherwise. No way he'd be breathing like he does when he's locked onto an objective and chucking everything extraneous out of his awareness: hit the target, slap the finish line, save the victim, waste the monster. Sam hopes Dean's chasing his own pleasure, but he knows there's no way he'd ever chase it at the expense of Sam's.

Anyway. He's hitting Sam's prostate frequently enough that pleasure is definitely in the mix, and Sam's erection has recovered fully, bouncing helpless between his legs to their rhythm.

Bones sliding along bones, something inside that will not fit. He needs it.

Sam doesn't say, _harder, faster, more._ No point in any of that. The best way to beg for it is to breathe out, open up his legs, let the last bit of tension go until the deep muscles in his pelvis release for the spear of Dean inside him, and welcome into himself how much and how perfectly it hurts.

Whatever this is, it isn't what Sam went into it expecting. They aren't even that drunk, and throughout the admittedly abbreviated process of Dean working his fingers up into him, Sam hadn't had anything beyond a general idea that he wanted a cock up his ass, pronto. He hadn't known how much it would hurt. He certainly hadn't known he would like it. Now he can't imagine how he ever didn't know. _Of course_ it's like this. Of course having Dean would be painful, of course making room for his brother in his body would be violent, even when Dean isn't, and of course Sam would be kinked for it for life.

Or maybe that's the endorphins talking.

Dean's gasping himself, sweet, sweet sounds. Despite Sam's earlier goading, he is certainly not fucking around, thrusting into Sam hard and fast enough to jar both their bones, but it's not enough. The pounding inside is drawing the pain out into a thread ever finer, but it just refuses to snap. Sam chases the fleeing edge of a perfect agony every time he thrusts himself backwards. He wants Dean to pummel him until he's destroyed inside, until he's nothing but a slurry of blood and shit and semen and oblivion.

But if he says that, Dean will stop. Dean will freeze, then pull out, as fast as he can while doing it very, very carefully. For a moment, Sam will see the horror on his face before Dean splits for the bathroom. Dean will never touch him again, if he knows what Sam wants or how badly.

Dean cannot guess what this is about.

Sam fumbles his right arm out over the sheets until his fingers encounter the bottle of lube. He flicks it open and squeezes it around the middle until a mass of slick fountains up and over his fingers.

"Yeah, Sammy, yeah." Dean sounds like he's dying. "God, do it, jerk yourself off."

Funnily enough, it never occurred to Sam to touch his dick.

Dean's hips stutter when Sam's fingers land in his crack. "Sammy?"

"Keep going," Sam breathes. "God, Dean, th' fuck's _wrong_ with you, don't _stop,_ Jesus Christ—"

Dean lets out a charming little wail when Sam wriggles a sticky-slick finger inside of him and hauls Sam bodily up and backwards onto his cock.

Yes. This is it. _This_ is Dean letting go. Sam found the last little bit of give in Sam, and now he's found the last little bit of give in Dean.

It's uncomfortable, probably. Sam's face is smashed into the mattress and later on he'll feel it where the weight of Dean's body is bearing down on his shoulder, but right now none of that's important. All that matters is Dean's cock sawing in and out of him, Dean's hole gripping his finger in a bite that's almost vicious. One, two, three, four times Dean yanks Sam back to meet his thrusts before shifting his stance to use the power of his thighs.

Sam works a second finger in beside the first and fucks Dean back onto them with the forcible flex of his hips. Dean chokes when Sam's fingertips bump into something inside, but he must have taken Sam's last upbraiding to heart, because he doesn't let himself stop. The artistry's gone out of it, though. Dean's pumping into him fast and desperate, a steady pounding on one single spot inside. It isn't the magic spot. But it doesn't have to be. The relentlessness is the thing. Sam lets that feeling fill his whole consciousness and swell.

He's aware of coming, but it's weird. Sam's always found the kind of orgasm he has from vaginal sex distinct from the kind he has getting sucked off. Apparently his brother's cock hammering his insides produces a third kind, and it is not bad.

Judging by the way his shoulders shake with his sobs against the mattress, it is not bad at all.

As soon as the orgasm dissipates, the spell he's been under is broken. Dean's still going, and whatever magic ingredient made the pain of his cock driving into Sam's body ecstatic has been spent. Sam is fully, acutely aware of that pain in an entirely different way.

Still. There's something about it. There's something about the sudden clarity with which he can hear Dean's gasps and moans and, yes, unsexy grunts. There's something about Dean fucking him through and past Sam's orgasm, about Dean continuing to use him that sets off a giddy little thrill in Sam's belly that he won't be admitting to at gunpoint.

Instead he spreads his knees on the bed, flat on his front now but for where he offers his ass up for Dean's access.

"Sammy, please, please, please, please."

Sam doubts Dean even knows he's saying it, but that's all right. Sam is always listening. He rolls his shoulder to get a bit of play in his right arm, reaches with those fingers, finds that spot.

Dean's hips still. His chin knocks Sam hard across his shoulder blade when he throws his head back, but all Sam can feel when he comes is a faint pulse in his ass that he might be imagining.

Several seconds later, the only sound is their combined heavy breathing, Dean's returning to normal a couple of paces behind Sam's. Dean's dick is starting to soften in Sam's ass, which is a part of this that Sam did not give thought to beforehand. It feels weird and kind of squishy, but it seems rude, even for them, to mention it.

At least until Dean finally does pull out, and Sam feels a rope of come pull out of him along with. "Dude, _gross,"_ he says with feeling.

"What, like I made this wet spot all by myself?"

Point there. Sam rolls his eyes anyway, then rolls himself onto his side. More come slips out of him. He grimaces.

Dean is cleaning his dick off with the tissues on the motel nightstand. "Hand me some of those, will you?" Sam says.

Dean doesn't. He's looking at the tissue in his hand. "Hello? Earth to Kleenex-hogger?"

There's a tightness in Dean's voice when he speaks. "Sam, you're bleeding."

"Huh?"

Dean shows him the tissue. Sam is immediately astonished that he's done this, because it is a repulsive thing to do, so it takes him a second to clock that it's also spotted with pink and red.

"Gimme the box." Dean does. Sam tosses the sheet over himself before he reaches between his legs and drags three Kleenex together through the mess there. The sheet earns him a _What the fuck?_ look from Dean, but Sam thinks keeping a sense of modesty about wiping one's ass is plausible enough even after sexual congress.

His heart rockets into his throat when he inspects the tissues. He really is bleeding. His sense of panic isn't for that, which is no big deal, but for what Dean is going to read into it.

Sam wrinkles his nose theatrically and chucks the tissues into the far wastebasket. "Nah, it's already stopped. You're sleeping in the wet spot, though."

Dean relaxes slightly. "Like hell I am. You have a majority share in that wet spot, means you're sleeping in it."

"Whatever happened to chivalry? 'Be a gentleman,' _you_ taught me that."

"Sammy, are you admitting you put out on the first date?"

"One, I don't know what the hell this is, but it's definitely not a date. Two, whatever it is, it's definitely not the first."

Dean lets out a put-upon sigh. "Fine. You can share my bed, but it's bring your own blankets."

Which is what they do, Sam slipping into his boxers while Dean is turned away. They're navy blue, the boxers. Dark enough that more stains won't show. Sam's pretty sure the stains won't show. They divvy up the covers and spend a pretty long time washing their hands before brushing their teeth. Saint Jose of Cuervo looks on benignly from the nightstand.

Sex doesn't actually burn enough calories to be a real workout, Sam read that somewhere, but by the time they climb into the undefiled bed, he's still beat. They lie back to back.

There are the usual bedtime sounds after the lamp clicks off: sheets rustling, noses being scratched, throats swallowing. Then, for a while, just the two of them breathing.

The lightness in Dean's voice is pitifully transparent when he says, "Didn't know you liked it rough, Sammy."

Sam snorts. "You call that rough?"

Dean scoffs and relaxes slightly. There's still tension in him, though, and Sam wonders why until suddenly Dean turns and presses a short kiss into the nape of Sam's neck. He's turned back over onto his side before Sam recovers from his surprise. "G'night, Sammy."

Sam lies there for some time deciding what to do about that. Then he reaches back, snags Dean's hand, pulls it up and presses a kiss to the scar on his knuckles as brief as the one Dean gave him. "G'night, Dean."

The mattress springs creak faintly on the other side as Dean exhales.

Sam stares at the inside of his eyelids for a while listening to his brother breathing. Dean's still awake, but he's all right. Sam, too, is all right. Maybe in the morning neither of them will be, but right now, they both are. If he were the kind of person to tempt fate, Sam might even say happy.

His skeleton feels light.

Gingerly, Sam shifts on the mattress. He feels raw inside and out down there, but it's the kind of rawness that makes him hanker for more, not for healing. Sam's never had a problem with drugs or alcohol, but he has a general idea of how addiction works: after the first time, everything else is just chasing the memory of that initial high, upping the ante to try to match it.

He isn't 100% sure how to get Dean to up the ante on this. This was pretty no-holds-barred out the gate.

He'll think of something.


End file.
